


Thirteen Draughts

by AeAyem



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls III: Morrowind, Elder Scrolls Online
Genre: Oneshot, Other, fanfic of a fanfic, first council, first era, genuinely not sure whether to tag this as f/f or f/m. depends on your interpretation of vivec really, in which vivec steals almalexia's heart and a sizeable portion of her pantry, the fountain of forgetfulness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-21
Updated: 2019-10-21
Packaged: 2020-12-27 12:42:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21118979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AeAyem/pseuds/AeAyem
Summary: Early in the First Era, in the days before the First Council when Nords still rule the land, Queen Indoril Almalexia of Mournhold catches a thief stealing food from her kitchens.





	Thirteen Draughts

**Author's Note:**

> This is a fanfic for/inspired by another Morrowind fanfic, The Fountain of Forgetfulness, based on Interlude II (https://archiveofourown.org/works/6900583/chapters/25790400). Though it works as a stand-alone, TFOF provides the context and is just an incredible fic besides, so I highly recommend giving it a read!

It is a testament to the wisdom of her Shouts that they inform her about the thief the first night he visits. The scenario could have been hand-tailored for merciful Mother Mournhold: an impoverished beggar, a wayward child from the streets, scrounging for food in her own pantry. Almalexia is captivated at once by the tale and orders that the beggar shouldn't be arrested. But they return the next night, and the night after, and on that third night Almalexia goes to see them herself.

The beggar is not a child, she realises, any more than she herself is, but malnutrition and a difficult life have left him small for his age and lean. There's something childish, too, in the way he moves, pressing close to the shadows, and this captivates Almalexia as she hides in the doorway and watches him move carefully about her kitchens, peering into a basket here, a barrel there. He is graceful, lithe, soundless as he searches, and Almalexia is intrigued when she realises that, though he's peered into many of her stores, he has not taken anything.

Finally he pauses by a rubbish-chute, where a wheel of cheese that's passed its date has been thoughtlessly left out by some negligent servant. Then and only then does he steal, slipping the refuse into some unseen pocket of his tunic, and only then does Almalexia make herself known. "You need not take that," she calls. 

The figure stiffens, and she steps forward so that he can see her, still in her silk bed-robe with her hair loose around her shoulders. "That's only refuse," she says gently, sweetly, "It was used to make a quiche for dinner. Why not have some quiche? We have much left over." 

Wide, wise eyes come to stare at her, the shade of brown that's pale-golden in the dim lighting of the kitchen. Almalexia sees fear written onto his face, a face strange and beautiful. 

He seems frightened, like a nix-hound poised to flee, so Almalexia shows him her palms and her movements are slow as she draws towards the pantry. "You can sit if you'd like," she says. 

"I didn't wish to cause harm," he replies, hanging his head, ashamed. "I'm not a scoundrel, believe me. I only take things nobody would miss, myself among them." 

"You've done no harm. It's only food, we have plenty." She pauses, then, her hand on the door. From here moonlight spills in through a narrow vent near the ceiling and she can see his face clearly. "... I know you." 

"I am one of your children, one among thousands." He says this sullenly, with a shrug. "We've met." 

"Yes, you're--" Almalexia's brow creases, "You're the one who came with Nerevar Mora. Your name was Vivec?" 

"You remember?" 

"I remember all my children. Never mind that, sit down! I'll find something for you to drink." 

"Flin. Please. No-- no, just tea, if you'd spare it."

He sits, and Almalexia kindles the cooking-fire, and sets water to boil, and when she locates the remainder of that night's quiche, she puts all of it on a plate and places it before Vivec. Vivec watches her with trepidation, but the moment she turns away to prepare the tea she hears the sounds of frantic devouring, and out of politeness she remains turned away until silence falls again. 

"Do you take honey in your tea?" she asks to break the silence.

"I've never had it." The words are muffled, as if spoken through a mouthful.

"Never had honey with your tea?"

"Never had honey." 

"Really! That’s a disgrace, it's delicious." With two cups of comberry tea prepared, Almalexia returns to the table, placing both cups before Vivec. Then she returns with a jar of honey and a spoon. "Try it."

A strange expression crosses Vivec's face. "How do you eat it?"

"I like to have it in tea, or on fresh bread, but it's not bad by the spoonful." 

"By the spoonful. Is that allowed?" 

"I'm the Queen. If I decree that honey may be allowed by the spoonful, so it shall be." 

The sombreness of her tone makes Vivec burst into laughter, and his laughter is beautiful, with a musical tone to it, and the way it shakes his whole form is captivating. Almalexia finds herself blushing. 

"Why are you laughing at me?"

"I'm having dinner with the Queen and she makes a decree about honey. Nerevar will accuse me of making up this story, like he accuses all my stories of being lies."

"He accuses you of lying?" 

"In his world and his truth, the things I have seen cannot happen. So I am a liar." Vivec shrugs his bony shoulders and takes the spoon, plunging it into the jar, but he pauses and gives Almalexia an uncertain glance, as if fearing reproach. To reassure him Almalexia leans over and dips her finger in the jar, and, with perfect dignity, licks the sweet nectar from its tip. A childish gesture for royalty, but somehow before Vivec she does not feel the need to put on pretences. 

It works, and Vivec chomps down on the spoon. His eyes flicker shut and he makes a pleased sound; then he bursts into laughter again, wiping the sticky liquid from his lips. 

"Why are you laughing at me now?" 

"Not at you! I'm not laughing at you. It tastes really good, that's all." 

Almalexia, satisfied, settles back and sips her tea, watching as Vivec digs into the jar of honey, taking a second spoonful and a third. In the light of the cooking-fire he is gaunt and yet handsome, strange and beautiful, androgynous and sharp and yet with a plain wisdom in his face, and a warmth. 

It has always brought her satisfaction to feed others. The Nords brought famine down on Mournhold, once, and those were hungry months. 

After Vivec has devoured nearly half the honey he stops and instead drinks his tea. "Ah," he breathes, leaning back, and his eyes fall shut with content. 

"You must have been starving. Does Nerevar not feed you?"

He scowls. "He has lost himself, like all men do. They can't stand shame, and you shamed him, and what men do when they lose dignity..." 

Almalexia's heart sinks. "Has he hurt you?" 

"No! No, he's not, he would not-- I don't think he is-- he's not like that. But he hurts himself. He loathes himself, fights others. He’s always getting drunk in the taverns and fighting. I don't know how to guide him straight."

"Why should you have to guide him? He's a grown man, he should guide himself."

"I'm guided by my belly, so I was guided here." Vivec's head lulls to the side, and he takes another spoonful of honey, swallowing it and letting the spoon hang from his mouth. 

“Well, I’ll feed you, then. You don’t have to steal.”

“I do have to steal. That’s my nature, I’m a thief, and it makes me very useful. What is useful is protected.” His words are pronounced strangely, made funny by the spoon dangling from his lips.

Almalexia crosses her arms. “You’re a mer, not some gardening tool! In Mournhold you will be protected regardless of your usefulness. Come to me when you’re hungry, next time.” 

Vivec peeks open an eye, giving her a wary glance. He has a youthfulness about him, slouching in his seat with a spoon dangling from his mouth, but the intensity of his gaze-- there’s a scornfulness behind it-- makes Almalexia blush. She drinks her tea, trying to pretend her face isn’t burning hot, and averts her eyes. 

Then Vivec laughs, like the sun breaking through a cloud, and Almalexia hears a clatter as the spoon falls to the floor, followed by a quiet curse as he rushes to get it. 

“Why are you laughing at me now?” she asks. 

“In Boethiah’s house we are safe and looked after,” Vivec answers from the floor, giggling. 

Almalexia looks to him, but he springs to his feet and turns away from her, as if he’s embarrassed himself. “I need to go find Nerevar,” he says apologetically. “He’ll need me, soon. He always does.” 

“But you’ll come back, won’t you?”

“I’m a thief, but I won’t steal your time.” 

“It’s not stolen. I’m giving it to you.” Almalexia rises to her feet, showing her palms. “I won’t impose myself on you, but I… I would like it if you came again. Please?” 

Vivec is still embarrassed, and his youthful face turns crimson, but he bows deeply. “Mother Ayem,” he mumbles. Then he is gone, like a pleasant dream, and Almalexia returns to her chambers thoroughly confused.

***

For three nights her Shouts see no sign of Vivec, and Almalexia grows more anxious by the day, though she denies it to her handmaidens, who notice, of course, and tease her about it. On the fourth night, however, she’s awoken by a gruff Nord guard who smugly informs her that her orphan is returned, and when Almalexia practically runs from the room she is ushered out with hearty laughter. She takes all the hidden stairwells flying and this time Vivec is greeted by a half-asleep woman short of breath, in her bed-clothes again. 

Instead of snooping, Vivec has been sitting on a table, and when she appears, he flies into the air and stumbles to standing before her. “Mother Ayem!” he says, distressed. “I’m sorry!”

“Vivec!” Almalexia replies. “I thought-- but why are you sorry?” 

Vivec looks away from her and, shaking, removes something from his pocket. He sinks into a bow and offers it out. “If you mean to execute me I’ll accept it,” he says, “If you wish to strike me for my theft I-- why are you laughing at me?”

Almalexia, who cannot help it, presses both her hands to her face and turns away from him, but she can’t hide the fact that she’s shaking with giggles. “You stole my spoon?” 

“Yes, I meant to sell it, I’m a scoundrel! I carried it around for three days before I mustered the courage to come to you and confess, and I didn’t sleep at all in those days! I was tormented, I haven’t had any peace at all. Ayem! Why are you laughing at me?” 

“Well, why didn’t you sell it?” 

“Because I couldn’t get a fair price for it! They only wanted to give me three dram, but I said that Mother Ayem has eaten from this spoon, it’s worth twenty dram, fifty, a hundred-- Ayem, stop laughing at me!” 

By now Almalexia is doubled over and laughing so hard she cannot speak. Vivec grabs her wrist, pulls her upright and pulls her hands from her face, revealing an expression entirely undignified, with her skin flushed and tears streaming down her cheeks. “Haha, I’m sorry!” she replies breathlessly, turning her face away, “I simply-- aha-- Vivec, it’s only a spoon! I didn’t even notice it gone!” 

Vivec still holds her wrists in his hands. “You didn’t?” 

“Not at all! I’m a queen, haha! Ahah, ah, what would I do with-- haha, you really asked twenty dram? For a spoon!” 

“For Mother Ayem’s spoon!” Vivec steps to the side, so that he can see Almalexia’s averted face. She turns it the other way and he steps to see that too. “You have a beautiful smile,” he adds, and his own face is radiant with a grin. 

Once the Queen has regained her senses, they make tea and sit down at the table again, and while Vivec scarfs down a plate of boiled kwama eggs, a seared slaughterfish, a basket of boiled hackle-lo on saltrice, a mammoth cheese tart, and a bowl of scrib jelly, Almalexia disappears into the next room. When she returns several minutes later, Vivec is slumped over in his chair and licking the scrib jelly bowl (he’d eaten the grand meal in no more than five minutes). “I dare not use a spoon,” he explains to her when she enters, “I might be tempted to steal again.” 

“You do not need to steal what I have already given to you,” Almalexia chides him as she sits down. “I’ll give you food, my spoons, and my forks and knives if you’d like those too. And my time.” 

Vivec lets loose a melancholy sigh. “Nothing in life is free,” he replies (his voice echoes because he speaks into the bowl). 

Almalexia, watching him, rests her chin on her hands. “Who says it’s free?”

A misstep, for suddenly Vivec folds in on himself and sits up, poised to flee, staring at her in horror. 

“I mean,” Almalexia adds quickly, “You don’t need to give me anything! I won’t demand anything of you. Rather, I was wondering if you wouldn’t…” and here she averts her eyes, “Tell me about your travels?” 

“My travels?”

“You said that Nerevar Mora calls you a liar, and that he doesn’t believe your stories. Since I met you I’ve been thinking about what remarkable stories you must have. A man like Nerevar Mora has probably seen much in his long life, and I cannot stop wondering-- what could you possibly tell a Nerevar Mora to make him think you’re a liar?”

Vivec blinks at her from behind the bowl he’s been cleaning with his tongue. 

His gaze, intense as it is, prompts Almalexia to keep talking, quickly and without the decorum that would befit royalty. “I traveled as a girl, myself, but since taking the throne my days have been long and dull and stressful. I balance between Nords and Chimer, and they call me Mother Ayem for the peace I keep, but motherhood is so boring! It is the mother who reads children the stories, not the children who read to the mother. It is the mother who entertains her children, not the children who entertain the mother.” She pauses. “I do not know why I’m telling you all this.” 

Vivec puts down his polished-clean bowl. He sits up, clasps his hands, and fixes Almalexia with a stare. “I understand. In whose house is Boethiah safe and looked after?” 

“I don’t suppose Boethiah is the type who gets looked after.”

Vivec considers this for a long moment, and with a solemn gaze resting on her face, speaks: “I was born in the ash, among the Velothi…” 

So for the next hour or so Vivec tells his stories. Indeed, most of them sound too incredible to be believed, but he tells them so passionately and with such animation that ‘the truth’ seems trifling and unimportant. He’s a captivating storyteller, because he seems not to care for linearity in his tales: he bounces between his childhood in the Ascadian isles, his gang in Mournhold, his time on the streets, and between these he speaks of time with the dreugh, and time spent among the Dwemer, and his consorting with Daedra, and he never makes it clear what’s metaphor and what’s literal, and he doesn’t need to. 

Almalexia does not listen in silence; she leans forwards, nodding and making exclamations of surprise at the appropriate turns, and here and there she asks questions that rarely receive straight answers. They are both surprised to find that the other is thoughtful and intelligent, and sometimes Vivec’s tales become background to tentative conversations on philosophy and meanings, their theories spoken with great care and many disclaimers, as if neither are used to having their conjectures listened to. But it is never long before Almalexia steers Vivec back to his own life’s story and they canter away in tales once more.

They have been speaking for a long time when a Nord woman enters the room, accompanied by a wonderful smell. By now Vivec is perched on the table, and Almalexia is curled up with her knees hugged to her chest, appearing quite childish for her bedrobes and her loose hair and the simple wonder with which she stares up at the storyteller. Vivec is in the middle of describing the numerous companions of a daedra named Fa-Nuit-Hen, with such vivid hilarity that neither notice the servant’s presence until she drops a basket on the table by Vivec’s rump.

Vivec is so startled that he falls off the table, but Almalexia grabs the basket before he takes it with him. “Oh, at last,” she says as he collects himself from the floor, “I got something for you. A surprise.” 

“I was already surprised!” Vivec protests. “What do I need another one for?”

“Hush, it was your fault for not paying attention.” Almalexia opens the basket and then, shyly, pauses. “I told you, when you last came, that it was best to eat honey on fresh bread.” 

She turns and offers the basket to Vivec. Within it, nestled in a clean floured cloth, is a loaf of brown and golden bread, richly-scented, still steaming from the oven. It is nothing like the cheap wickwheat loaves peddled to the paupers of Mournhold, augmented with sawdust and dense from lack of care; between the cracks of its crust is the delicate pale of true Skyrim-flour, airy and rich with butter. In the cloth next to it is a half-emptied jar of honey and a silver spoon. 

Vivec only stares at her, and when she nods he takes the basket as gingerly as he might their own child. 

“Try some,” Almalexia urges him.

He bows his head and says nothing.

Almalexia frowns. “It’s not quite remarkable as dreugh-vomit cakes,” she says lightly, as if she were amused rather than terribly self-conscious, “But it’s my favourite. Go on! You should try it.” 

“The Dwemer don’t know what love is.” 

“Excuse me?”

Vivec jerks his head up and, with his gaze roaming the room to avoid her face, he begins to ramble. “The Dwemer don’t know what love is. I saw them capture travellers and dissect them, searching for the love there. How much is contained within a person? Where is it stored? How much might be harvested? They asked many questions about the nature of love. Does it accumulate over time or does it fade? They cut apart old mer and young mer to try and find the answer. And… they concluded that there are many types of love that could all be refined from a basic form. When used as an energy source, one relationships provides about thirteen draughts.” 

Almalexia blushes. “I’m not sure what you’re implying--” 

“I don’t know whether they ever found out if young mer or old mer contain more love. They concluded that it was used in transactions, verbal and non-verbal, and I knew a Tonal Architect who wanted to use new wielding units to forge insoluble union from it. But they never could find where it was stored.” Vivec’s gaze goes back to the floor, and he hugs the basket to his chest. “Nerevar is a great deal older than I. Six drams for one night of love only makes six draughts of energy… he owes me seven. Old mer have more love than young mer, by the way, the Dwemer were wrong about that. He loves too much. It’s unwise to love that much, to purchase gutter-gets with scrib-rolls or dram or prophecies or bread.” 

Face burning, Almalexia turns away from Vivec, drawing herself up, crossing her arms before her chest. “Unwise, is it?” she says in a sharp voice. “I’m not purchasing anything-- it was a gift!-- but if you truly think I’m so unwise, you can leave it.” 

“Nerevar Mora bought me for six dram, but when I went to touch him he flinched away. He’s never once touched me, not once.” Vivec’s voice softens. “Do you love anyone, Almalexia?” 

“I think you’ve misunderstood my intentions, urchin!” 

“You don’t, do you?” 

“I love all the people of Mournhold. This city-state is the only husband I’ll ever take.”

“Do they love you in return?” 

“All the people love me.” 

“Does anyone ever give you bread?” 

Almalexia’s shoulders fall, and she doesn’t reply to that. She’s blushing, horribly self-conscious, and Vivec has succeeded in making her feel quite childish, unbefitting of a queen. 

By the time she’s recovered her composure and turns around he’s gone. 

*** 

A week goes by and there’s no more thefts from the kitchen. For Almalexia, life goes on largely as usual; her life’s been boring, as of late, the Nords are so suspicious that she hardly dares step foot in her own throne-room, let alone enjoy herself. The most excitement she gets is daily sword-training with her Shouts. Otherwise she wastes her days away in the library, studying books of law and warfare and history as if she could ever use the knowledge they contained, or strolling through the gardens in solitude, brooding. Her handmaidens don’t bother her and her Shouts watch their tongues around her, all knowing that royalty takes poorly to being insulted.

When Vivec first visited, her just-as-bored handmaidens had been swift to concoct a grand fairy-tale in which the roguish beggar wooed the Queen. Such is a common tale in bawdy bard-songs: beautiful maidens of high birth and lofty station, seduced by dashing thieves, who, in the Velothi way, attain fortune and glory with nothing more than ‘a deftly wielded spear’. Almalexia is sure that her handmaidens enjoyed the fantasy while it lasted. Her people indulge in a great many fantasies about her, to a point where it feels suffocating, like being dressed in too many robes. 

In her brooding walks around her gardens, she imagines perusing those robes as she might a wardrobe in the morning. Each robe a different fashion, to serve a different purpose, to suit a different taste; each robe a different Almalexia that exists in someone else’s head. Mother Ayem, to the Chimer. Bitch-Whore of storm to the Nords. To Nerevar Mora a revolutionary in the making, to Sotha Sil a patron supportive of magic, and to Vivec-- 

The tales of her handmaidens contained a kernel of truth, in the end: Vivec the rogue has succeeded in undressing her. In their conversations Vivec has peered through her lavish wardrobe, and seen the crude, underwhelming, pale thing beneath them, the truth of her. Without her stations, her wealth, her crown, what is Almalexia but just another Nerevar Mora?

***

A week passes, and then two. The sixteenth day after Vivec last visited her is sunny and warm, a crisp spring day with a breeze blowing in air so blissfully clean that it sets the lungs to singing. The sky is clear, the Timsa-Come-By is in full bloom, the populace is happy; all things are as they should be. The Nord dignitaries are sleeping off their hangovers, her handmaidens are gossiping incessantly about some bard that’s arrived in Mournhold, Sotha Sil is locked away in his tower and hard at work on their schemes, her Shouts are cheerful about their spring bonuses. Only Almalexia is troubled and melancholy, but she does her best to hide it, and her faithful servants do not mind her childish sulking. 

All things are as they should be-- until Almalexia returns to her chambers after her daily sword-training and interrupts a burglary.

“Vivec?” 

As she enters the room, the urchin is stooped over her desk and rifling about the paper, but at her voice he cries out and leaps to standing. “Mother Ayem, we must speak!” 

“Vivec!” Almalexia repeats herself, aghast. “What are you doing?”

Her guard, who’d come in just behind her, now draws her sword and advances, causing Vivec to recoil in fear. During daytime he’s a different person, much more like the reluctant sellsword who stood beside Nerevar in their first audience than the bard who’d so charmed her in the kitchens: he’s clad in cheap leather armour obviously meant for a larger mer, his dark hair pulled into a high bun that accentuates the gauntness of his features, and to his back is lashed a spear. 

“We must speak,” Vivec repeats himself. “I stole nothing. Please don’t hurt me. Please let me speak.”

“I…” Almalexia touches her guard’s arm, holding her back. “Why? What is this about?” 

“It’s about Nerevar. Please, Mother Ayem, please speak with me.” 

Almalexia sighs, then dismisses her guard with a few quiet words. Once the are alone she walks to her bed and sits down. She’s still clad in her armour, weary from the exercise, and it’s with a warrior’s clipped sternness rather than a mother’s mercy that she addresses Vivec: “Very well. Speak.” 

Vivec speaks in a rush: “Nerevar is in your dungeons, and you must release him.” 

“Nerevar?” Almalexia’s eyebrows raise. “This is about him?”

“Yes, of course! You must release him, you must set him free.”

“I  _ must  _ do nothing of the sort.” 

The look that Vivec gives Almalexia is so hopelessly miserable that she can’t abide it for more than a few seconds.

“Nerevar Mora,” she continues, blushing and crossing her arms before her ebony breastplate, “Was caught brawling a clansman of one of the Tongues. He should consider himself fortunate that I’m  _ only  _ leaving him to rot in my dungeons.” 

“He’s lost,” Vivec protests. “He needs help, he needs a chance.”

“He upset the peace in my city! He needs to be punished.”

“He’s learned his lesson! He’ll see clearly, if you only let him go he’ll be changed. He just needs help. Please, Mother Ayem, give him a chance, let me help him--” 

“Vivec,” Almalexia interrupts him. “Why do you care so much about helping him?”

The question perplexes Vivec, whose pleading breaks off in its tracks. “Why?”

“Yes, why? Why do you stand by this violent drunkard who doesn’t even feed you? I don’t see why you should care.” 

His gaze falls to the ground. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“Is it because you owe him a debt?” Almalexia presses. “Tell me what the debt is, I’ll pay it off for you. If it’s food and shelter you need, there are safehouses where you’ll be fed and looked after. I can even find you a job at the castle, if you wish. You don’t need to chain yourself to Nerevar Mora!” 

“Give Nerevar the job,” Vivec replies. “It can be anything, I’ll convince him to do it. He’s strong, he’s a good warrior, a good man, he’ll take it and he’ll prove himself to you, he’ll--” 

“You didn’t answer my question!” 

“Yes, I did! I said you wouldn’t understand. Will you give him the job?”

“That’s not an answer!”

“Yes it is!” 

Almalexia rises to her feet, agitated, which makes Vivec step back fearfully, and she feels her face flush with anger. At once the indignant pining of the past two weeks comes back to her, and she draws herself up, queen-like, bristling with injured pride. “We’ve already established that you think me a fool,” she says hotly, “But I will not be condescended to by a thief in my own chambers! Nerevar broke the law and he will pay for his indiscretions as every other citizen must.”

“I don’t think you’re a fool,” Vivec protests. “You’re angry at me, and I’ll take it, but don’t punish Nerevar for my--” 

“Such arrogance! Nerevar is being punished because he broke the law, not for-- for whatever you seem to think I feel!” 

“But you’re upset with me.” 

“I’m not upset,” Almalexia insists, though her face is red and her eyes are directed stubbornly out the window. “I don’t care at all. This is the law, that’s all.” 

“Ayem,” Vivec murmurs sympathetically, and though Almalexia’s eyes remain directed, haughty, away from him, she hears him draw closer. “Ayem, have mercy on me, I-- I wanted to come to you. I shouldn’t have stayed away.” 

“Keeping track of any thieves who pilfer my pantry is the job of my guards.” 

“I wanted to come, but I was stuck on a question and I couldn’t find an answer. You gave me that bread. I wanted to bring you a gift, too, and I’ve spent all this time wondering what I should bring. A dress, or a necklace, or a flute, or… But it was all for nothing! You’re a queen! What I can steal you already have, and what you need I can’t steal.” 

Almalexia glances at Vivec and sees that he himself is blushing, his own gaze fixed on the floor. 

“You’re right,” Vivec continues in a murmur, “But you don’t understand it, not really. I stay with Nerevar Mora because I owe him a debt. But I’m never going to pay off that debt, because if I paid it, then I’d be allowed to leave. What you say by giving, Nerevar says by taking. He needs me. He saved my life, and I’m indebted to him, and he paid me six dram but won’t touch me, so I’ll stay with him always. What he says by taking, I say by…” here he glances quickly up at Almalexia, then shrugs. “I don’t know how I say it.” 

Almalexia is at a loss for words at that; she shakes her head, embarrassed to see Vivec so embarrassed. 

There is a long moment of hesitation, the both of them searching for words.

“You said you cannot steal what I need,” Almalexia finally says. “What is it you think I need?”

“Release Nerevar Mora,” Vivec replies. 

“Vivec, I’ve already said--”

“Ayem, I thought so long about what gift to bring you, and I decided-- I’d ask a favour. That’s my gift.” He draws towards her, his hands clasped nervously in front of his chest, and he speaks too quickly. “You don’t understand, I see it in your face, but listen. Release Nerevar and give him a job so that… so I’ll be in your debt, too, we both will be in your debt. We’ll never pay this debt. We’ll be in your service, we’ll never leave you, you will always be in our thoughts and hearts because we’ll owe you this.” He looks away. “Please understand me.” 

“You didn’t answer my question,” Almalexia points out. 

Vivec shakes his head. “You need what cannot be stolen. And I need Nerevar.” 

A moment’s hesitation, and she takes a small step towards him. “It can’t be stolen, but... can it be given?” 

“Given…” Vivec bites his lip thoughtfully, and it’s a long moment before he answers, with solemn gravity etched into his face. “Yes, I think so. In stories and in dreams.” He pauses, and solemnity gives way to amusement as his thin lips curl upwards in the corners. “The Dwemer asked the same. Did you remember I told you that? I made a dispensary unit for it, they passed it around, like skoomer. It was a novelty to them. They never had anything like it.”

Almalexia retreats and sinks to sitting on her bed again. She crosses her arms before her chest and stares at Vivec’s face-- the strong noon light turn his eyes the colour of honey, and once again, he’s staring right through her and into her-- the perceptiveness of his gaze is such that she cannot help but turn her face away.

So she exhales.

“I will release Nerevar Mora,” she says. 

Vivec gasps in relief. “Ayem!” 

“But he must work!” she continues hastily, “I’ll give him a job, and he’d better do it. He will earn his freedom or be thrown back in my dungeons!” 

“He will, he will, I’ll make him!”

“And he’d best learn how to speak to a queen! I have no patience for obstinate mercenaries, Vivec! If he’s rude to me, or insolent, I will show him no mercy!” 

“He’ll be good, he’ll behave like a prince. I’ll learn to read and I’ll buy him a book of manners.”

“And if he so much as  _ glances  _ at another tavern while he’s in my employ, I’ll--”

“I’ll kill him first!” Vivec is laughing, and at that moment he rushes forwards, seizing both of her hands between his and kneeling before her, kissing each of them in turn. This gesture takes Almalexia so by surprise that she is actually lost for words; she hugs her arms to her chest and blushes deeply, stammering, unable to muster any reply. 

Vivec notices that he’s embarrassed her, he leaps to his feet and bows, embarrassed in turn; but he’s giggling still, his ill-fitted epaulets quivering on his shoulders. “I’ll go,” he says, apologetic. “It’s better if Nerevar thinks he arranged this on his own. He hates to be looked after, even when he needs it.” 

“Vivec,” Almalexia replies seriously, “If he ever harms you--” 

“He won’t. I know him better than that. He’s proud, but he loves to help, he wants to be the one who’s doing the looking after. Give him a chance to earn your favour and he’ll love you always.” 

“I don’t want his--” Almalexia, still flustered beyond words, waves her hand. “Oh, no matter! Go, then, before I change my mind.” 

“Thank you, Mother Ayem, thank you!”

Vivec bows again and goes to leave, but before he reaches the door Almalexia utters: “Wait.”

Vivec glances over his shoulder, and Almalexia, meeting his gaze though her face burns, asks: “You’ll come back and tell me more of your stories, won’t you?”

Vivec blinks, and then he smiles, in that strange and beautiful way he has of smiling: it lights up his face, like sunlight breaking through a cloud, and like sunlight it makes Almalexia’s face and heart grow warm, so warm that it’s a wonder she’s able to meet his gaze at all; though she also feels, at that moment, that she’s unwilling to ever look away from it again. 

He doesn’t answer her. He walks over to her, rests his calloused palm against her cheek, lets it linger there for a moment as he looks into her eyes--

Then he steps away, and departs silently out the door, like a pleasant dream, leaving Almalexia stunned, sitting cross-legged on her bed.

She realizes almost instantly how ridiculous she must appear, sweaty and still armoured, her hairdo lopsided, her face burning such that she’s certain, were she to look in the mirror, it would match the shade of her hair. She hides her face in her hands and groans with irritation at herself; but she’s smiling despite her irritation. Once again, Vivec’s succeeded in making her feel quite childish-- this time, however, she somehow doesn’t mind. 

She takes her dear time, sitting on the bed, reflecting on all that’s happened. She sits there for so long that it begins to feel precisely like a pleasant dream, a lovely story, the sort of thing she dreams of on her walk through the garden--

But when she goes through the door to fetch her guard, the gaggle of handmaidens who wait outside with conspiratorial grins assure Almalexia beyond all doubt that Vivec was no mere fantasy. In the literal sense, at least. 

**Author's Note:**

> As I said, this is fanfic for The Fountain of Forgetfulness. A thousand thanks to TFOF's author, Ascended_Sleepers, for beta-reading this one, and also for writing my favorite fanfic ever, and for being one of the greatest inspirations to my own writing since I've joined this fandom besides. You're the best, ily.


End file.
